


Scent and Memory

by midnightflame



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alpha Shiro (Voltron), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coffee Shops, Eventual Sex, M/M, Mutual Pining, Omega Keith (Voltron), Rutting, Scenting, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:09:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22397596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightflame/pseuds/midnightflame
Summary: Shiro never fails to visit the coffee shop where Keith works. Every day at 7 AM he walks through those doors and only ever orders one of two things. Today, however, he fails to arrive on time.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 253





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! I've taken a break from working on Royalty to put this together for some of the lovely people organizing [the sheithcon fanmeet](https://twitter.com/sheithcon2020) in support of all their hard work so far! I wanted to do something nice given all the recent stress, so I asked for an idea and ran with it. I hope you all will continue to support them and all their efforts! And I hope you enjoy this little fic!
> 
> Also, this is end-game Sheith, so don't get any hopes up about Curtis here. And the song in the fic is [this acoustic cover](https://open.spotify.com/track/18PrtmAcNMgZNy1edWuXGb) of "A Sky Full of Stars" by Coldplay. 
> 
> And as always you can come poke me over at [Twitter](https://twitter.com/bymidnightflame)!

Scent means everything in this world. 

It’s the whole reason Keith took a job at Altea, the only coffee shop in the city to put a dent in the profits of the corporate chain stores that littered every other block. It sits right at the heart of the business district, not quite part of the banking ward but close enough to be a fan favorite of stockbrokers and bankers alike. The coming-and-goings of the tech-savvy and money-minded bring in constant flushes of city air, and when combined with the heavy scent of coffee beans and fresh-baked scones, Keith finds his sense of smell so overwhelmed that none of them really stick.

Well, the coffee does. 

As does the scent of one of his regulars. Every morning, right at seven o’clock, Shiro walks into the shop. He only ever orders one of two things, dependent on the time of year: a small americano with a double-shot of espresso on the side or their largest cold brew with light ice. Occasionally, he’ll make an appearance late in the afternoon and order another round. From what Keith has managed to gather, those are the days Shiro anticipates his work running late into the evening hours. They don’t happen often, but when they do, there’s a frenetic sort of energy that envelops him. Keith wouldn’t call it panic. It’s not that chaotic. Rather, it’s more like what he imagines those last few days leading up to the creation of the world might have been, if one subscribed to that sort of view. 

A positive flurry of energy, with something monumental about to burst into being. 

He never knew what those things were, but he knew that Shiro ran a mid-sized tech company that was becoming increasingly in demand for its products. Allura, the owner of Altea, often stated Shiro had a knack for seeing genius before it even bloomed, and given the prospects who had come to work for his company, his foresight had proven itself unerringly accurate. 

“It’s rather terrifying, to be honest,” Allura had said just yesterday morning. She had watched Shiro leave the shop, americano in hand, with a shake of her head. “But he’s good for business, so I’m not about to complain.”

By _good for business_ , she didn’t just mean his daily purchases. Most of Shiro’s employees often found themselves at Altea, brainstorming over cups of coffee. They never used the free wifi — each having their own personal hotspot — but what Keith had come to find out was that these thought-heavy sessions were less about company ideas and more about debating which one of them was actually right. ( “Who would be dumb enough to talk about our designs in public like that!?” a woman with mouse-brown hair, who barely looked over twenty, had laughed at him, her fingers hooked around the edge of her glasses and a lethal smirk cutting across her lips.) The latest argument he had witnessed was whether buttercream frosting was superior to the whipped and cream cheese varieties, and who in the city made the best cupcakes. 

Shiro had promised his team _extra compensation_ for their hard work these last few weeks, and this was the supposed debate over its form.

Due to the busyness of the shop and the continuous play of whatever music Allura was addicted to at the moment, they never fielded any complaints about the noise they made. If nothing else, Keith is grateful for that fact. Today’s musical selection is one of her more mellow mixes. Not that Allura’s taste in music ever ventured into the more rowdy sorts — no Linkin Park or Wutang Clan here. Occasionally, there would be a flashback to a Rolling Stones’ classic like “Wild Horses” or “Paint It Black,” but mostly, it was a parade of contemporarily revamped classical pieces or the typical coffeehouse fare with a splash of chillstep. 

At the moment, an acoustic version of “A Sky Full of Stars” is playing. Keith finds himself humming along to it as he wipes down one of the espresso machines.

“It’s weird.”

He glances over at the register where his coworker stands, frowning at the front door like it had uttered some sort of curse towards his grandparents. Drying his hands over a bar towel, Keith swallows down his initial retort — _nothing gets weirder than you around here_ — and lets out a sigh. “And what exactly is weird about _it_ , Lance?” 

“He hasn’t come in yet.”

This time, Keith lets his worry betray him in the form of a small frown. He exhales again as he starts restocking the depleted ranks of medium and large cups. “It’s not like he has a set date with us or anything.”

“Yeah, but it’s just. . .weird, y’know?” Lance says, running a hand through his hair. He’d gotten it cut recently, a fact Keith had heard about once and was then reminded of every hour by the way Lance continuously teased and touched the dark brown strands. “That guy’s like a machine. I mean, who walks in the door every day at seven on the damn dot?”

Keith shrugs. It’s hard for him to think of Shiro as anything other than human. With the brightness of his smiles, the easy way he handles his phone or drops his change into the tip jar, and how he talks to Keith like he matters. He’s never once yelled, not even when the new girl, Romelle, completely fucked up his order and handed him one of their caramel mocha concoctions. All Shiro had done was smile and laugh, saying it’s good to try new things every once in a while. 

Shiro is everything a lot of their patrons aren’t — genuinely kind. Not that they don’t see their fair share of decent people, the ones who just come in and order simply and leave like they had been no more than the ghost of a dream. But given who they tend to cater to, the demands can be absurd and the complaints even worse. Keith has been working here long enough to get used to it, and Lance had started not long after him. The fact that they’re both still here two years later says a lot. Probably more about Allura and the care she shows to her employees, but he’d like to think it speaks to their own resilience and ability to adapt.

Or, in his case, not take a lot of shit. As it turns out, most people in this city didn’t mind a barista who could mouth off back to them — stockbroker or construction worker, it didn’t seem to matter. There may have been more to that as well, considering who he was, but those are things he’d rather not think on. 

“I’m gonna go grab another bag of the Italian blend and some vanilla from the back,” Lance says with a yawn. “Keep an eye on the door, would ya?”

Keith grumbles a reply and waves Lance off toward the back. At ten in the morning, their rush hour is technically over. Things wouldn’t pick up in full force again until noon.

_‘Cause you're a sky full of stars. . ._

“. . .I’m gonna give you my heart,” Keith sings out quietly as the bell on the front door chimes.

The whole world goes quiet. For one brief, heart-pounding moment, everything falls to silence. Keith breathes in, and instantly recognition hits. Because scent means everything in this world, and just like the slightly acidic smell of coffee that clings to his clothes, that warm and sultry scent that is Shiro’s sinks right down into him. Completely unforgettable. Keith has never smelled anyone like him, and he knows that means trouble. 

But, he’s never been afraid of a little danger. 

“You’re late,” Keith says. His words feel like heat-blasted tracks of desert, even if his voice runs as smooth as mountain water from his throat.

Shiro laughs, and the low, husky pitch of it catches Keith off-guard. It’s not Shiro’s usual laugh. Something brighter, clearer than this sound now making its way out of his mouth. Keith doesn’t want to admit the things it does to him at that moment, like filling his gut with a syrupy sweetness, thick and far too easy to drown in. Or how his heart feels like a sparrow trapped in too small of a space. Just banging and banging and banging with no way back to the sky it called home.

He swallows and moves over to the register with a sweep of his fingers, brushing the hair from his cheek. 

“Something came up this morning,” Shiro says, completely apologetic. 

And he means it — the apology. Keith can hear it in his voice, still too damnably seductive to be Shiro’s, and he can see it in his eyes. They’re a beautiful steel gray, but unlike steel, they carry all the emotions of the human heart as plainly as the sky wears the colors of a sunset. 

That sort of thing is unforgettable too.

Shiro sets his cellphone on the counter, then rummages around in his back pocket for his wallet.

“Is everything okay?” Keith asks. Quiet like he might somehow shatter the world if he spoke too loudly. That’s how everything feels at this moment, as fragile as a field full of flowers. All he had to do was set off a panic inside of himself, and the whole thing would get trampled. 

Shiro’s hand stills over the countertop, fingers curved around his wallet. He blinks, then smiles up at Keith. “It’s nothing unusual. And nothing my favorite manager needs to be worrying himself over.”

A blush spreads over Keith’s cheeks. Favorite? Him? Then again, he did talk to Shiro a lot when he was here. Considering Shiro usually lingered in the mornings to finish his double shot of espresso before leaving, they’ve had plenty of opportunities to converse. Mostly about Keith. He’d always assumed that was Shiro being polite, and with that sweet scent of his lingering in the air, Keith found it far too easy to settle into conversation with him. 

_“He’s flirting with you.”_

Allura had said that one morning, her elbow planted on the bar that ran the length of the counter on the opposite side of the store. They hadn’t opened yet, and she was there, tasting one of the blueberry scones while she enjoyed her morning coffee. Keith doesn’t even remember how they had gotten on the topic of Shiro.

_“As another alpha, I know these things. And you’re just being dense for an omega, Keith. Or resistant.”_

She had waved him off after that with instructions to add more blueberries to the next batch of scones, the ballet pink of her painted fingernails one of the few things he vividly recalls about that moment.

Why had they been talking about Shiro then?

Keith shakes his head and returns Shiro’s smile. “Having the usual today?”

“Not quite. I don’t need the espresso but make my americano a medium.” A brief pause as Shiro glances up at the menu board. “Do you still have the ginger-orange scones?”

Keith blinks but nods all the same. “Yeah, we have a few left.”

“Perfect! I’ll have one of those for here.” Shiro flashes him a smile again.

“Here?”

Here. As in sit down and enjoy himself for the time being and not just down a cup of espresso and dart out the door exclaiming he’s going to be late sort of _here_? Keith stares at Shiro, only to realize he’s doing it when the man tilts his head and offers him a quizzical smile. 

“Keith?”

Ah. 

Shiro’s going to stay here for a bit. It all makes sense now. That’s why he’s wearing a pair of jeans and a black hoodie with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and not the usual dress shirt with slacks freshly pressed and clinging to his thighs. The jeans cling, too. And Shiro’s forearms are well-muscled. There’s also the panther leaping across Shiro’s chest in bold candy-apple red, captured mid-attack. Or maybe jumping to some new place as it traveled its territory, trailing a scent it simply couldn't deny. Not that it mattered. But why hadn’t he noticed any of this? 

Oh.

_Oh._

The more Shiro looks at him, the sweeter that scent around him becomes, and it takes all of his effort not to lean in and press his nose into Shiro’s neck for a better taste of it.

Scent means everything in this world, but only Shiro’s scent has ever meant anything to him.

Keith feels the heat of his embarrassment lighting up his cheeks. It’s like someone went and lit a dozen signal flares over his skin, bright and burning, and it's the last thing he wanted at this moment. He drops his gaze to the register and hastily begins punching in Shiro’s order. 

“That’ll be six dollars and thirty-six cents,” he mumbles. 

Shiro smiles at him, perplexed, as he hands over a ten-dollar bill. “Everything all right there, Keith?”

He nods in response and focuses instead on carefully counting out Shiro’s change. When he glances back up, Shiro is still smiling at him. There’s a touch of concern to his gaze, and something else mingles with his scent, warming it up. Maybe it’s whatever they’re baking in the back. His fingertips brush over Shiro’s palm as he places the assortment of bills and coins into his hand. A mistake is what he should have called that because it registers like that first clap of thunder in a storm-loaded sky. 

He’s touched Shiro before, though, hasn’t he? Accidental touches as coffee cups are handed over or like just now where money exchanges hands, and every time. . .He’s always liked those moments. Today, however, it’s like experiencing it all for the first time again. 

Because he. . .

Keith shakes his head and clears his throat. “I can bring it out to you.”

“Thanks,” Shiro says. He looks at Keith for a moment longer, a furrow digging into the middle of his brow, then he turns towards the bar on the other side of the shop where no one else is sitting.

What was that about? Keith stares at the register, then down at his hands, then further down along his body until his gaze rests on the white tips of his Converse sneakers. Everything seems in order. No weird secondary limbs or runaway hearts. All fingers accounted for, and he’s definitely breathing all right. And yet, for a minute there, it felt like he could have melted right into Shiro and everything the man wanted. 

Which was an americano and a ginger-orange scone. 

Right. He’s supposed to be putting that together. 

“Huh. So, he did come.”

In one hand, Lance carries a five-pound bag of coffee beans while the other manages a bottle of vanilla-flavored simple syrup. How long he’s been standing there, Keith doesn’t know. Normally, he catches the heavy swing of the door that leads to the back of the shop, but those last few minutes in Shiro’s presence seem to have knocked his senses sideways. 

“Yeah,” Keith murmurs, his voice sounding more like a dream’s echo than something solidly produced by his own vocal cords. “Just now. . .”

Lance sets the coffee bag on the counter beside one of the grinders. He narrows his eyes at Keith, chin jutting forward, and gives him a slow once over that leaves him with a frown tugging at his lips.

“Did he say anything?”

Keith shrugs as he sets up to pull the espresso shot. “Just that something came up. Nothing else.”

“He smells different.”

“Mmm.”

“That’s all you have to say about that — _mmm_?” 

Keith shrugs again, not trusting himself to look at Lance. As the espresso drips into the cup, he turns his attention to the hot water. Did Shiro want a cup for here or one to-go? Maybe he should ask. . .

“You know what he smells like, don’t you?” Lance asks, shoving himself into Keith’s line of sight. His brow has knitted itself together, but there’s anger sparking in his eyes. Not the usual indignant sort that comes after one of Keith’s retorts, but the kind Keith least liked to see from him. The worried sort. Consuming the last bit of space between them, Lance leans in and cups his hand around his mouth, as if Shiro would inadvertently hear them from the other side of the shop. “Like an alpha who wants —”

“That has nothing to do with me,” Keith cuts in, stepping to the left of Lance. He grabs one of the clean plates as he maneuvers around the bar area. All while pointedly avoiding Lance’s stare. “There’s another customer about to walk in. Take care of them while I get Shiro’s order together.”

As easy as it would be to argue, Lance knows as well as he does that doing so would earn them both a one-way ticket onto Allura’s shit list. Which remains a list neither of them cares to be on after the first time they ended up on it. Keith still hasn’t forgotten the cold that had sunk into his bones after handing out flyers on the streets. It had been snowing, and there was no one walking around out there that had cared enough about a cup of coffee to abandon whatever warmth they had their hands dug into. A fact Allura had been well aware of when she had sent them both out with a stack full of papers and a merciless grin on her lips.

Keith plates the scone after warming it up briefly. He then pours the shot of espresso slowly into the hot water he had used to fill up one of their ceramic mugs. _Altea_ is scrawled across the front of it in gold lettering, Allura’s beautifully precise calligraphy a stark contrast to the matte black of the mug’s surface. Taking a deep breath, which almost proves to be a mistake as he catches hints of Shiro’s scent in the air, Keith prepares himself for the head-on meeting with the man again. 

It hasn’t always been like this. Not at first, at least. The first time Keith saw Shiro walk through the doors, it had been another hectic Monday morning, and he had barely gotten the sleep he needed to keep a dozen orders straight over the absolute cacophony of the shop at that hour. But the moment Shiro had stepped up to the register, it was like the parting of the seas. Maybe it had been that beatific smile of his, a true beacon of light in the chaotic madness. Shiro did have an amazing smile. . .But that morning, it had instilled a calm over Keith unlike any he had known, as if Shiro had brushed aside all the clutter around his heart and stilled the demands in the air around him until there was only the two of them. 

_Crazy morning, huh?_

Has he been looking forward to seeing him every morning since? Keith blinks down at his hands. That’s not possible, right? Shiro is one of their better customers, that’s true. And he is kind, tips generously. . .but that’s regardless. It could be Keith or Lance or any other of the employees helping him. Usually, it’s him, though. 

Somehow, he always seemed to find a way to the man.

With a shake of his head, Keith rounds the corner and catches sight of Shiro sitting at the bar. He has the morning paper spread out in front of him, his fingers curled gently around the top right corner. A pair of black-framed glasses have made their way to his face, where they rest neatly on the bridge of his nose. Has he ever seen Shiro wearing those? He would have remembered something like that. Sort of like how you would never forget your first sunrise after it felt like your world might be ending. As Shiro delicately turns the page, Keith nearly trips over the thick black mat sprawled out over the floor. It’s supposed to save him from future pain, and yet, here it is, causing him real-time embarrassment. Which is its own brand of pain.

When he glances up, it’s to Shiro staring at him, one hand wrapped around Keith’s elbow, the other steadying the cup of americano, and his entire upper body pressed flat against the countertop. He looks amused in that cautious manner that creeps out around concern. All Keith can think at that moment is how he hopes the now smothered newspaper rests in peace.

“Are you all right?”

Keith swallows, fairly certain he would have choked on any words he tried to speak, and simply nods. 

“Good,” Shiro says, sitting back in the bar stool. His straightens out the paper like a rogue breath of wind had threatened to sweep it off the counter and not Keith’s idiocy and the heroic efforts it had inspired. 

“Sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it. Things happen, right?”

Sure they do. _Just not in front of people like you_ , Keith thinks. Though, it’s probably better to have it happen in Shiro’s line of sight than Lance’s, all reactions considered. What was better, to have this man drop him a rung from _favorite_ manager to mostly favorite or the year-long torment that would be Lance’s consistent and hellishly embellished accounts of the event?

It’s not as though Shiro looks at him any differently. At least, not right now. He’s still full of warmth, with that smile spread over his lips like God himself had told him he was a favored son. 

“Here you go,” Keith mumbles, setting down the plate with its scone. He follows it with the americano, which he places neatly beside the newspaper. 

“You spilled some. . .”

_Fuck._

Glancing down, Keith notices the faint red tint to his skin, running along the inner aspect of his thumb, where water-saturated espresso beads, small and dark against his wrist. The quickly cooling liquid barely registers. Instead, all sensation becomes lost to that damning feeling you get when you anticipate getting shoved onto the wrong side of someone’s otherwise good day. Assuming Shiro had been having a good day what with the strange lateness to his morning.

“You didn’t burn yourself, did you?” 

Keith blinks. “Ah. . .no, I don’t —”

“Let me see it.”

Shiro isn’t overly insistent about it, but there’s something odd about his voice. A little demanding, though not in an overtly aggressive way. More concerned than anything else, Keith convinces himself, and yet, a part of him desperately wants to hear Shiro speak to him like that again. Strong, just a little forecful, but still kind. That, in and of itself, shocks him into pulling his wrist up to his lips and licking the espresso from it like a cat cleaning up an insult of touch laid upon its fur. 

The air changes. 

With his next breath stilled in his lungs, Keith glances up slowly to catch the way Shiro’s eyes are riveted on him. No, not just him. The motion of his tongue over skin, his lips. . .Keith smells something sweet in the air. Subtle, but no less alluring, like a touch of cinnamon to coffee. 

When their eyes meet, Keith doesn’t just feel his heart rate quicken, he hears it like the dull echo of thunder rolling across a winter sky. It had that sort of dry electric quality to it, and he wonders, if it gets any louder, would it split the skies between them and cover them in snow. Not the normal kind of snow either, all frigid depths and icy dreams. The sort that shuts out the rest of the world, closing them in, where all the warmth is theirs, and outside of them, nothing more exists. Shiro’s eyes have that sort of promise in them — the gray of snow-heavy skies and a place for them alone.

Suddenly, Shiro blinks, and everything about the moment dissolves as quickly as sugar in scalding water. He clears his throat and sits back, looking momentarily lost. A smile flashes over his lips, more apology than Keith cares to see just then, so he grabs a damp towel from the sink behind him and continues to clean off his hand.

The silence eventually gets to him. Shiro hasn’t touched his drink, and the scone sits there, lukewarm by now but still delicious. Keith would know. He’s eaten his fair share of hours-old scones in this place. That sweetness still lingers in the air, and coupled with the quiet now between them (because it _is_ quiet even if car horns are still blaring outside, and police sirens keep screaming, and people keep pushing their way in and out of the shop), Keith finds that he can’t stand it at all. 

“Is everything all right?” he asks, staring directly at Shiro. “Should I get you something else?”

Shiro shakes his head. “It’s. . .it’s fine, Keith.” 

That awkward silence from before starts clawing its way up into the space between them again. Shiro glances at the newspaper, clears his throat, then runs his fingers over a headline yelling about the recent study released, the one showing a steady decline in birthrates across the country. After another second of apparent consideration, he closes the paper and folds it back up. Only then does he look up at Keith.

“I’m sorry if I scared you.”

Scared him? Was that how it appeared? If anything, Shiro had done the exact opposite, and maybe, on some level, that frightened him. He’s never once allowed himself to travel down that route, the whole _connection_ thing. Stuff like this? It never really worked out in his favor, and that’s outside of the whole mess relationships tended to be in the first place. Navigating them when you were marked like he was. . .honestly, what was the point in even hoping? 

Resisting the urge to scratch at the nape of his neck, Keith shrugs. “I wasn’t scared.”

“That’s good,” Shiro says, a bit lifeless. As if he couldn’t quite convince himself of the truth in that statement. “I know it can be a little overwhelming, but the medications only do so much —”

“Medications?”

The question races out of him before he can even consider whether he should have been asking such a thing in the first place. He’s here in the service industry, and Shiro is just a patron, and those sorts of questions, when asked of the wrong people, can land you in the unemployment line. But Shiro had volunteered the information. Besides, had he ever been part of _the wrong people_? 

And it’s not like Shiro is a total stranger. He’s been coming to Altea for over a year now, and with every visit, Keith feels like he’s gotten to know him a little better. He knows the different projects he’s been a part of, even if he doesn't know all the details, and he knows the various things he’s helped create, when his birthday is (a leap-day baby, but he always celebrates on February twenty-eighth), how he likes his coffee. Keith also knows that he lives three trains stops away, in a loft situated in one of the nicest parts of the city, set apart from all the tourist traps. Shiro also has a three-year-old cat named Kuro, which Keith had eventually come to tease him for because it turns out for all of Shiro’s engineering genius, he is terrible at coming up with names. So, Kuro is Kuro simply because she is all black. Ah, that’s also something he knows about Shiro too — he’s an American citizen, but his parents were Japanese. They’d both died when he was in college, a car accident that had left Shiro with several scars and a year-long delay in his graduation, but he still visits Japan at least once a year to see his grandparents. 

Knowing all of that, is it really right for him to call Shiro just another _patron_? 

Even if they haven’t gotten together outside of this place, they’ve had plenty of conversations that would have elevated most people to the status of friend. Maybe not a close friend, but certainly better than an acquaintance. 

And the look Shiro is giving him right now. . .it’s not the face of someone affronted by what had been asked, but rather relieved. When their eyes meet again, however, there’s a hazy quality to Shiro’s, like someone had pulled the forerunner clouds of a storm over them. The curtain dropped. The next act ready to begin. 

Shiro licks his lips, then lets out a weak laugh. “I’m not really sure how much you know, or how different it is for you, but for someone like me, it’s easier to take the medications to help control everything. They can only do so much, though.”

 _How different it is for you_. . .

Is it that obvious what he is? Even in this shop, with all its scents constantly scrambling about? And it’s not like he isn’t familiar with the medications and all the various plans doctors like to set forth with them. But like anything medical, there are limits. No miracles here, just tried-and-tested protocols with its variety of outliers. Overall, good enough for the general populace. He gets an injection once a month to help control his hormonal influences. Keith had always assumed the same options were available for all the others as well. 

“ — so, you probably won’t see me around next week. Maybe not the next either. . .”

Shiro is still talking. What had he missed? A few seconds, a whole minute, half the day? His head feels strange, polluted with ideas he’s not sure are his own. Yet, even as he questions them, he recognizes all the tags marking them as his. These are his thoughts, his desires, his questions. 

“You won’t be here?” he asks. His throat feels dry. He should get something to drink. It’s been a long morning, after all, and he doesn’t even remember the last time he took a sip of water. Things like that are essential to do with a job like theirs, always taking orders, yelling out names when tickets were closed out, shuffling back and forth behind the counter, making sure everything was made just right. Shiro won’t be coming in, though. “Like at all?”

Why does that worry him? No, not just worry. That statement has opened up some unknown chamber within him, and something dark and dangerous has come slithering out, and he doesn’t know where it’s going or what it wants. Only that it’s something that is supposed to be shut away. 

There’s a small furrow between Shiro’s eyebrows now. His fingers curl around the folded newspaper. “That would be a little irresponsible of me if I did.”

The laugh that follows that statement rings hollow in Keith’s chest. This isn’t supposed to be funny. 

“Shiro —”

“Shiro!”

Neither of them turns right away. Instead, Keith stands there staring at Shiro, and Shiro keeps sitting there, staring right back. He doesn’t recognize the voice that had called out Shiro’s name, though. Definitely not one of his employees. They’re hard to miss once you know them. That furrow still sits between Shiro’s brow. Keith’s fingers ache with the desire to touch it. Maybe if he did, he could sink right into Shiro’s mind, like handing himself over to quicksand only to drop into some secret underground chamber below. In there, he could explore all he wanted, touching thoughts carved into the walls, deciphering dreams and desires as easily as hieroglyphics (even if he had never once studied anything remotely like an ancient language). He would know exactly what Shiro had been thinking all this time. Why he had said the things he had said and —

_“Like an alpha who wants —”_

“I hope you weren’t waiting too long.”

Keith shifts his attention to the newcomer. He’s tall. Not quite as tall as Shiro, maybe not even as tall as he is. Dark hair, soft brown eyes, tanned skin, a face you could easily forget. Not that he was bad looking. He isn’t even ugly. There’s just nothing interesting about him on a first glance. Even the way he is dressed talks more about his willingness to get swallowed by the crowd than about defining who he is. A pair of blue jeans, a little loose around the thighs and tapering to a bootcut, dark brown loafers, a navy blue V-neck sweater with a white T-shirt underneath. Nothing else. Not even a watch on his wrist. In his left hand, he carries a nondescript duffle bag, a little beat-up around the bottom edges but looking little worse for the apparent wear. If not for the duffle bag, he is utterly unremarkable, like the word _the_ itself. No one pays attention to _the_. Everyone is always anticipating what comes after it. 

“Hey, Curtis! I arrived a little early, since I wanted to enjoy my morning here after the late start.”

The man called Curtis gives Keith a friendly wave as he takes a seat beside Shiro. 

What is he supposed to do with that? Granted, Keith does know. You wave back and offer to take the man’s order and point him to the register to complete the transaction if he wants something. All of it with an equally friendly smile in the hopes he might be a repeat customer. Only, Keith doesn’t want this man to come back. He doesn’t want him smiling over at Shiro, or setting his duffle bag between their barstools like it’s something he and Shiro are meant to share, or. . .or. . .

_What are you even thinking, Keith Kogane?!_

Maybe Lance’s words are playing ding-dong-ditch with his head. Knock, knock. Who’s there? A glaring emptiness in the place you thought you had everything together. 

“This is a nice little shop,” Curtis says, leaning in toward Shiro. That smile clings to his lips like the last shred of dignity on a whore. Maybe in another light, it might have a better appeal to it. Keith thinks he would look better wiping it off his mouth and walking out the door. “I’ve passed by it a few times before, but I always end up sticking to the usual around the corner.”

Shiro laughs. There’s an edge to it that makes Keith want to cringe. Because it’s not _Shiro’s_ laugh. It’s all business — dot the i’s, cross the t’s, verify no one left any loopholes in the document. “I hate to tell you this, but Altea has those chain stores beat. Especially when you have someone like Keith here making everything for you.”

Before Curtis turns around to survey the store’s decor, he drags his gaze over to Keith and scans him from head to toe like he’s inspecting the breeding registry of some prized war-mare. Whatever he gleaned from his examination doesn’t play out over his face. Just that same vapid smile on that same unmemorable face. Keith still doesn’t know why he dislikes the guy. He doesn’t even smell like Shiro, or himself for that matter. If anything, he carries something similar to Lance, a vague familiarity but nothing to spark his interest. It’s kind of like being asked to choose between two near-identical shades of blue when all you really want is a battle-ready red. The blue might be someone else’s favorite color, but it wasn’t what he was looking for. 

What **is** he looking for then? 

“It certainly has charm. I’ll give it that,” Curtis says.

And Keith has to give it to Curtis for that. Altea _does_ have charm. Something completely different from so many other coffee shops, where they aim for that level of pretentiousness that doesn’t seem like pretentiousness anymore. Those stores are like walking into a pot calling the kettle black argument, only with shiplap and minimalism surrounding electronic screens scrolling through five-dollar cups of coffee. 

Rather than bask in the glow of its own fabricated righteousness, Altea embraces the quiet luxury a coffee shop truly is. Gold pipes that do absolutely nothing, just the aesthetic, run in pairs around the various corners and up along the walls. Leather couches dot the back lounge area, with heavy dark-wood tables, perfect for spreading out laptops or a collection of mugs, intermixed between them. The bar is black marble, and the bar stools carry a burnished gold frame. Gears made of silver and gold line the walls, making the whole inside of the coffee shop look like clockwork. Keith can’t help but think that should the steampunk apocalypse come, they’ll be at the forefront caffeinating soldiers and techno tinker-tailors alike.

“Can I get you something?” Shiro asks, glancing at Keith from the corner of his eye. 

He doesn’t miss that look, or the way it lingers just a second too long. 

Curtis doesn’t seem to miss it either. With a shake of his head, he leans in toward Shiro and drops his hand in between them. His fingertips brush the duffle bag. “Actually, I was hoping you might sign off on the contact and the provisions we agreed upon. I realize we’re cutting it a bit close for you. Once we have that settled. . .”

A small frown starts to tug on Shiro’s lips. It’s an insistent thing, slowly but surely curving his mouth downward. 

Unperturbed, Curtis reaches down to unzip the duffle bag, producing a black binder with a light blue logo flared across the top. He sets it over top of the newspaper along with a black pen. From the looks of it, a rather expensive pen, sleek in design and with ink that would flow like water. Shiro has rather neat handwriting. Another thing Keith knows about him. Almost pretty enough to rival Allura’s penmanship. He had spent one morning, in between finishing off his usual espresso, drawing out the layout of his kitchen, complete with little signposts indicating what was kept where. All because he had wanted Keith’s opinion on the best place for his coffee maker. 

Keith still wonders if he actually uses it. 

“Oh! You’re from Sincline Industries! I have a few friends who work there,” Lance says, peering over Keith’s shoulder. “You wouldn’t happen to know James or Nadia, would you?” 

Curtis flashes a smile over at Lance, though he shakes his head. “I can’t say that I do. What sector do they work in?”

Lance purses his lips as he takes a step back and around Keith. With both hands now planted on his hips, he lets out an exaggerated exhale. “James works in profiling or something like that. Checking out candidates and all that stuff. Nadia probably does what you do. . .”

“What are you talking about?” Keith blurts out. Despite the exchange going on between Lance and Curtis, Shiro hasn’t looked away from him once. And between them — him and Shiro — the air feels like its coagulating into something black and tarry, the sort of unease you don’t easily extricate yourself from. Put the right incendiary force to it, and the whole thing just might explode. 

“I guess you could say that place does a lot of things,” Lance says, rubbing at his chin. “They do all that life-planning stuff. Lots of executives use the services Lotor put into place. And I’m guessing. . .” With his left eyebrow lifted high, Lance glances from Curtis to Shiro then down at the black binder sitting on the countertop. “Well, I mean everyone needs the help. . .”

He states that last bit like an excuse hoping to make up for the apology that should have been uttered in its place. Somewhere, deep down in the core of him, Keith feels that thing slithering about. Without thinking, he places a hand over his abdomen and furrows his brow. 

Shiro’s gaze locks itself on Keith’s hand. That sweet scent hits the air again, and Keith hates the way it makes him ache. Letting out a frustrated growl, he clenches at his apron. 

Lance settles a hand gently on his shoulder. “So, you said about a week or so, huh? Sorry, didn’t mean to overhear your conversation from earlier. . .the place is pretty dead right now.”

Shiro doesn’t look at him right away. He sits there, eyes still fixed on Keith’s hand, the fingers curling into the fabric of his apron. The way he keeps staring, as though he wants to tear Keith’s hand from his clothes, only makes that thing inside of him grow all the more dangerous. Keith knows that instinctively, even if he can’t explain what exactly about it has changed. Only that it carries within it a venom for which there is no cure, and once he’s been bitten, it’s all over. 

“Most contracts are for a week, though, everyone is different,” Curtis states. He’s also staring at Keith, his eyes narrowed, that hollow smile still over his lips. “I’m not at liberty to explain any of the details of this particular one. You know how these matters are.”

Lance nods knowingly. His grip tightens over Keith’s shoulder. “Well, can I get you anything to go?” 

“Just this man here,” Curtis laughs. 

Shiro doesn’t laugh. Neither does Keith. All he can think is how he doesn’t want Shiro to go. He doesn’t want to watch him pick up that pen and sign whatever executive lifestyle thing he needs to right now. Shiro’s fingers touch to the edge of the binder. His gaze still hasn’t left Keith, however. He’s not looking at his hand, fisted over his stomach, but at his face. And Keith has to wonder what sort of expression he is wearing because Shiro looks absolutely conflicted.

Keith can smell it too — that indecision. 

He doesn’t like it. Shiro never comes in smelling like that. He’s bright, like sunshine on a spring morning, washing over a field of newly woken flowers. Something altogether natural and powerful, clean and life-giving. Shiro smells promising.

He’s not supposed to smell like smoke and dying fires. 

“A to-go cup,” Shiro says, his voice hoarse. He swallows, then offers Lance a shallow smile. “And a bag for the scone.”

“Shiro, the contract,” Curtis points out. It’s still sitting there on the counter, unread, that logo glaring up at Keith like some enraged sea-god, waves crashing all around him and threatening to drown the world. 

“Can we sign it at the office?” Shiro asks.

Curtis reluctantly nods. “Sure. We can handle the details there.”

Lance hands Keith the plate with the scone, then takes up the americano and makes his way back to the bar. He pauses once, to tug at the back of Keith’s shirt and utter a soft _“C’mon, man”_ before leaving him to whatever it is that has him planted in place. The bar stools scrape across the floor. Keith flinches under the sound.

Shiro’s scent changes. Quietly. Sweet and comforting. 

Keith glances up to catch Shiro staring at him again. There’s a softness to his expression now, a little apologetic, a bit wistful. 

_Don’t go._

His heart thuds heavy in his chest. One painful beat after the other, slow as all dreaded moments tend to make things. But that’s all he can think, all he wants. For Shiro to stay. 

“I can do it.”

What did he just say? 

Shiro blinks at him, confusion sweeping across his face. His brow knits together again. His lips part slightly. And his scent turns just a little bit sweeter. 

“Keith, do you even know what you’re saying?!” Lance asks, alarm shaking his voice. 

Curtis continues packing the binder up, discreetly tucking it back into the duffle bag. He flicks a glance up at Keith, the disdain clear in his eyes, then lets out a slow exhale. 

“I can do it!” Keith cuts back at Lance. He looks over at Shiro, where confusion has paved the way for surprise. “Whatever it is, I can help!”

“You don’t even know what he needs right now,” Curtis states. Pity has replaced the disdain, and Keith doesn’t know which he hates more.

“Keith, buddy, you’re like my best friend here which is a pretty sad statement but the undeniable truth, and as your friend, I’m telling you there is a lot more to this than. . .” Lance makes a gesture, as if trying to pull an explanation from the air, and finding none, gives up with a shrug of his right shoulder. “. . .well, a lot more than coffee dates and ambiguous flirting can take care of. I mean, can’t you tell?”

Shiro still hasn’t said anything. He stands there, surprise making a pretty mess of his mouth, and smelling like the best thing Keith has ever encountered in his life. Just like that first moment he had walked into the coffee shop and their eyes had met. “I’m not —”

“What do you expect to do when you can’t even tell?!” Lance asks, completely exasperated now. “Can’t you smell him?!”

Anger flickers to life in his chest. A small flame licking at his lungs and heating the blood as it rushes through his heart now. “Of course, I can! He smells. . .amazing. . .”

Keith watches as Lance’s eyes go wide. He has the to-go cup in his hand and barely keeps from crushing it under the weight of his shock. 

Curtis barks out a laugh. “You think an alpha about to rut smells _amazing_?”

“A what. . .?”

“Keith. . .” Lance says, gently this time. “Do you mean that?”

With a nod, Keith looks over at Shiro. His entire expression has changed. No longer surprised or conflicted, but broken in the most beautiful way. The gray of his eyes reminds Keith of the silver that made up his mother’s wedding ring. Another thing full of promise. He swallows and nods his head again. “You can’t smell that?”

Lance rubs at the back of his head. “Well, yeah, I can. Just not with Shiro.”

“What do you mean?”

“Only Allura smells that good to me,” Lance admits. “To most people though, when an alpha’s about to go into rut, they can’t stand the smell. That’s why there are all those medications, but it’s meant to act as a warning signal to people like us. So that we stay out of their way before something bad happens. . .”

“And it’s why they turn to places like Sincline,” Curtis says. “Medications can only suppress heat and rut cycles for so long. At some point, biology takes over. We’re all trained to handle these sorts of things. And sometimes, partnerships develop.”

Keith looks between Shiro and Curtis. Ah, so that’s it. . .Curtis is a professional. He’s trained to handle Shiro, and he has likely done it before. But if that’s the case, then why is Shiro looking at him like he doesn’t have to leave with Curtis right now? 

“How do I smell to you, Shiro?” Maybe he shouldn’t ask that either. Another one of those wrong questions to the wrong people sort of thing. But that ache inside is tearing into him the way truth bites into fantasy, nothing but sharp teeth and sharper realities, and somewhere under it all, that thing is baring its fangs, just waiting to finish him off. 

He can’t put any of this back. Even if he could, Keith doesn’t know if there’s a place for it anymore. Now that it’s out, it’s out, and he can’t force it back any more than a butterfly can revert back to a chrysalis.

Shiro breathes in. “I can’t sign that right now, Curtis.”

Curtis starts at that, one heavy step that resounds. “You do know how dangerous this is.”

“I do,” Shiro says, his voice firm but calm. He looks at Keith again and smiles.

 _That’s how you should always look_ Keith thinks, his heart racing now. 

“But he smells like heaven to me, so I can’t sign that right now.”


	2. Chapter 2. Pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, again! After a poll over on my twitter, the vote was to break this chapter up into two parts. So, I present to you Part One of this second chapter, in which we get to see the start of Keith's adventure into Shiro's rut-week. By the time you get to the end of this one, I suppose you can imagine what Part Two will be mostly comprised of. . .
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this set-up, and as always, feel free to come yell at me over on [twitter](https://twitter.com/bymidnightflame)!

Shiro’s condominium is clean to a fault. Though, not sterile like some places, where the inhabitant hadn’t had a single desire for making it a home. Those places may as well have been shrines built to the emptiness that inhabits some humans.

His kitchen is exactly as he had drawn it. The coffee pot had apparently found its place on the countertop near an empty spice rack. Residing on the opposite side, several cookbooks, laid neatly on their sides, spines out, looking like they had just been pulled from the bookstore’s shelf that morning. _Easy Ramen for the Busy and Hungry_. _Feel Good Classics_. _Paleo Made Simple_. _The Five-Ingredient Feast_. Keith lets his gaze drift over the titles, finding laughter scratching at his throat as he scans each of them, but more than that, insight into Shiro’s life. How he viewed time, what his tastes gravitated toward. Assuming he had chosen those books for himself and they weren’t gifts from those taking pity on him.

“You didn’t have any trouble finding the place, did you?”  
  
Shiro appears from around a corner, the only one that cuts into the otherwise open space of his condo. Over his shoulder, Keith can make out the large living area, complete with a dark grey L-shaped sectional couch crowding around a coffee table that looked as though they had been rendered from salvaged wood panels. Beyond that, floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city below. Sunlight glitters over the surface of the bay, reminding Keith of shattered glass and how the broken shards could turn into a dazzling array of stars under the right kind of light.

“No,” Keith replies with a shake of his head. “It was exactly as your text said.”  
  
Three stops down from Altea, another block of walking beyond it, then a right onto 6th street. A rather nondescript building, melting into its surrounding like it was nothing more than another bit player crowding in on the office stage. Cast in brass, the number _605_ sat in the shadows cascading down the building’s front. Across the street, a small hotel with door attendants dressed in burgundy, golden tassels dripping from their shoulders and silken top hats that glistened when the sunlight fell upon them. With a red carpet unfurled to the sidewalk and golden gates flung open before the revolving door, it oozed a sense of superiority that bordered on ludicrous, like a mouse playing ringmaster to an audience of lions.  
  
Keith found he had preferred the cool and quiet of Shiro’s apartment lobby to the ostentation of the hotel. Even if it did seem to be a popular destination. It’s not exactly the sort of place you’d catch him walking into of his own volition. He has to wonder though if Shiro had ever bothered with booking a room there. Maybe back before he had purchased a place of his own. Keith remembers him talking about the move across the country. Just a few boxes shipped. He’d sold all the rest.

“Good!. . .Good,” Shiro says, his smile faltering on the repeated _good_. “So. . .”  
  
Lifting his bag, Keith offers Shiro a smile he hopes offsets the shock of nerves both of them seem to be feeling. “Should I put this somewhere in particular?”  
  
“Oh, right!” With a wave of his hand, Shiro beckons Keith out of the kitchen, his smile returning in full force. “I guess I could give you a tour of the place since you’ll be here for the week, huh?”  
  
When Shiro laughs, it holds that same husky edge to it that had put a thrill racing down Keith’s spine and set that dark want free to roam his insides. He swallows, practically tasting the sound on the air — sweet with just a touch of smokiness. “That would be great.”  
  
Hefting his duffle bag over his shoulder, Keith pads past the kitchen and out into the living area, where Shiro waits. There are two small steps leading down to where the couch sits, its cushions large and made for napping. The floors are an ashen grey wood, sparking memories of Shiro’s eyes and the way they had clouded over the other day in the coffee shop. A large, plush area rug, white as new snowfall, sits beneath the furniture. Keith almost misses the silver thread woven subtly throughout it, the pattern indecipherable.  
  
“As you can see, this is the downstairs living area,” Shiro says, turning in a half-circle so that he’s facing the couch. “I use it mostly for entertaining when I have to, but it’s a quiet place to run over articles or read a book. Wifi is throughout the place. The password is Kuro#701neKo. The K’s are capitalized.”

"Where is Kuro?"

Shiro tips his head, a smile moving over his lips with such fondness that it makes Keith's heart ache. "She's staying with the Holts for the week. Less hectic for her there with all of this." He turns, his smile faltering slightly, and begins walking again. "This way."

Keith would be lying to say he's not disappointed. After all the stories Shiro had shared, he had wanted to meet "the terror of his heart" who Shiro couldn't simply live without. One of the few things that had made the move across the country with him. More than that, though, he didn't want to see Shiro's smile waver like that. . .like he'd forgotten a part of himself.

As Keith finally rounds the corner that had jutted into the view of the living room, he catches sight of the broad glass-lined staircase zig-zagging its way up to a second floor at the other end of the room. He could see how it might give someone the impression of walking on air. Immediately to his left, however, a hallway works a path deeper into the condo. He peers down it, eyebrow lifted, only to snap his attention back to Shiro when he realizes the man has started talking again.  
  
“We can head upstairs in a second, then,” Shiro says, his smile now hanging loose and amused on his lips.  
  
He looks terribly smitten, and Keith shoves down the urge to turn around and leave into whatever forgotten basement of his being it had tried to crawl out of. Because it felt _good_ having Shiro look at him like that, like he could fall in love with him, and when you’ve spent your whole life convincing yourself looks like that are part of the fabricated network laid out by alphas looking for someone to breed, you learned to grow wary of them.  
  
Only, he _is_ here to fuck. Maybe not breed, but. . .Shiro would take it that way. Even if Keith knew he couldn’t help thinking it.  
  
Or was what it Curtis had said? 'Help the mind and soul regain its peace.'  
  
Apparently that’s what Sincline Industries boasted of doing. As if it isn’t all just rutting in the end.

But, he doesn’t mind the idea of it. Not with Shiro.  
  
Honestly, what would his mother even say about this?  
  
“Keith?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Thought I lost you for a minute there,” Shiro says, a strange tremble to his voice. He licks his lips and glances down the hall, then immediately back to Keith. “Are you sure about all of this? It’s not too late to —”  
  
"I’m sure, Shiro!” Keith cuts back. He shifts his grip on his duffle bag and pushes around the corner. His steps strike solidly against the wood floor as if he meant each one of them. Keith only hoped Shiro couldn’t see into the center of him, where he pulled confidence from his core and forced it throughout his body. Yes, he knows he wants to be here, to be the one with Shiro, but to say he’s experienced a rut, particularly being what he is, would have been to throw a lie onto the wind just to see how far it might carry his words. And with Shiro, Keith got the feeling the man would know his doubt from a single brush of fingertips to his skin. “What’s down here?”  
  
Rather than answer, Shiro jogs up the two steps and positions himself in front of Keith again. He’s big. That’s all Keith can think, staring at Shiro’s back now. Broad shoulders. Well-muscled, but oddly not imposing. Made for lifting up, not crushing. Even if Shiro’s strength is capable of decimation, nothing about the man gives off that impression. Which is probably why he always finds himself struck by Shiro’s size at the weirdest times. It’s not as though he hasn’t seen the man practically every morning for the last year.  
  
With the flash of a smile, Shiro kicks his head to the left, where Keith can now make out two sliding doors. He had missed them on the first glance, each outline so seamlessly integrated with the surrounding walls Keith thinks he would have had an easier time counting ants from an airplane coasting at 30,000 feet. Painted the same pale grey as the walls, they’re all too easy to miss aside from a half-moon of polished silver mid-way down on each door. Keith watches as Shiro slides his fingers into the hollow of the door handle and pulls open the door closest to them. He follows with an exhale a moment later.  
  
“There you go,” Shiro says.  
  
Keith doesn’t miss the faint flush dusting his cheeks pink.  
  
Beyond the doors, a bed. King-sized, with a plush black duvet trimmed with a line of red and white. A herd of pillows sits stacked against the headboard, which barely peeks above them, and appears to be made of dark wood and cuts a beautiful contrast to the paleness of the walls. Several of the pillows look meant for sleeping, fluffed up and covered in the same bright white as the sheets beneath them. Some of the others are clearly for decoration, boasting either a velvety silver sheen or a lustrous black. All of it whispering of a tailored hand behind the set-up.  
  
Keith doubts it was Shiro who pulled this all together, but he has to admit the man has decent taste.  
  
The bedroom is larger than he had noted at first, though the bed takes up the majority of it. Two nightstands flank each side of the bed, cut from the same dark wood as the headboard. Standing like stately guardsmen before palace gates, a lamp on each one, their bases a rustic silver.  
  
“The closets are over here.”  
  
Keith hears another door sliding open. To his right, Shiro stands by the far wall, linens and towels folded neatly on shelf after shelf. Rubbing at the back of his neck, he glances over at Keith, then lets loose a laugh that sounds more like an apology.  
  
“You’ll find all the clean sheets and towels in this one.”  
  
“That’s. . .a lot,” Keith says, craning his head to the side as he attempts to count the stack at the very top.  
  
Shiro’s cheeks flare red, and he laughs again. Less apology, more outright embarrassment. “Things will probably get. . .messy.”

“Messy?”  
  
“I mean, not all the time!” Shiro says, as if by modifying the severity of that potential he might somehow still keep something of his dignity intact. “But, we’ll want to change the sheets at some point during the day. And bathe. . .”  
  
Something in Keith flares hot at the notion of stripping the bed down after they had been in it together. An unpleasant feeling that coiled around his guts. Not painful, just a heavy unease. At the very least, he manages to control his reactions before the grimace takes hold of his lips.  
  
It makes sense, right? After what they would be doing, the sheets, their skin. . .Keith nods. Shiro lets out an audible sigh.  
  
“Right! Ok, moving on. In the closet next to this one, I have my clothes. The drawers have T-shirts if you find you need something clean. . .” Shiro glances up, waiting a beat before continuing. “And just outside the bedroom, down the hallway to the left, there’s the washer and dryer. That’s an option, too.”  
  
Though Keith isn’t about to admit it, the idea of wrapping himself up in one of Shiro’s shirts holds more appeal to him than the freedom of the open desert road and its endless tracks of unexplored emptiness. It’s the first time he’s thought he might like to tangle himself up in something rather than extricate himself from all the things trying to cage him in.  
  
“If you don’t mind,” Keith murmurs, feeling the heat upon his cheeks like the first breath of a summer’s afternoon. “Where should I put my stuff?”

Shiro points to the opposite corner, where a large well-cushioned armchair resides. Perfect for reading or unwinding in, deep enough to sink into without feeling consumed by the size of it, and dressed in a rich red fabric that offset the blacks and greys decorating the rest of the room. Beside it, a small marble table, cut into a hexagon, supported on three sides by a gunmetal base.  
  
“You can set it there for now. Once you get more settled, you can unpack and find the best places for your things,” Shiro says.  
  
The rest of the tour goes by quickly. Just as Keith had noted upon first sight of them, the stairs leading to the second floor are made of industrial glass, but as his foot hit the first step, he had immediately stopped. Beneath him, clouds had burst into action, floating across each step and continuing their journey over the glass panels blocking him in on either side. Shiro had started to explain the system behind it, most of which Keith didn’t understand (setting Shiro to laughing and looking gorgeous as sin as he did so). He settled for simply pointing out the panel on the wall, just as they exited the stairs, that controlled the images drifting across the glasswork. Once evening hit, the patterns would supposedly change into something fitting that point of the day, sparking Keith’s curiosity. How many different things would he see just walking around Shiro’s condo?  
  
The upstairs area carries the same open floor plan as the lower floor. Shiro’s workspace claims the majority of it, with a massive frosted glass desk that overlooks the sitting area. Accompanying it, both a desktop computer and a laptop. Constellations drift over the computer screens, as unhurried as the clouds had been floating across the stairs. A collection of pens, all looking like they should be on display amidst Faberge eggs and not relegated to daily work use, are scattered across the surface, each likely in easy reach depending on where Shiro is working at the desk. At the far corner, a stack of books. This time not in alphabetical order. Various strips of paper stick out from the ends of them, some with dog-eared pages in addition. All looking well-worn but taken care of.  
  
Behind Shiro’s work station, another seating area. This one more intimate than the one downstairs. Keith attributes that to the walls closing in on it, rather than the glass railing that had lined the upper level around Shiro’s desk. The couch there is large and deep, off-white fabric, with a storm-cloud grey blanket so soft Keith had nearly taken it with him on their walk back downstairs. Along with Shiro’s laughter had come the promise of getting to use that blanket however Keith saw fit over the next week. A flat-screen television consumes most of the wall opposite the couch, accompanied by every gaming system Keith knew of on the market and access to just about any movie he could think of wanting to watch.  
  
By the time they return to the kitchen, Keith feels comfortable enough in the layout of the condo to know all the best places for a nap, and that despite the overall cleanliness of the place, it carries traces of Shiro everywhere. From the games lined up (from most played to least) on the shelves of the matte black media console upstairs to the various renditions of the night sky scattered throughout, either in artwork on the walls or small glass orbs containing galaxies within them, to the refrigerator with its overstock of flavored waters and menus tacked to its doors with colorful magnets.

It causes warmth to flourish in his core, this idea that now he knows a little bit more about Takashi Shirogane, the guy who walks into Altea every morning at 7:30 AM on the dot with an order simple and predictable. The same guy who wanted nothing more than Keith.  
  
Shiro stands just a foot away from him now, arms crossed over his chest, pulling the T-shirt tight across it and outlining the cut of muscle in a way that makes Keith’s core heat up for other reasons. He presses his back against the kitchen island, hands curving around the sleek marble, and rocks onto his heels. He hasn’t unpacked yet. Strangely, that concept doesn’t bother him. He has time, and right now, Shiro’s scent fills the kitchen, warm and inviting, with an edge to it like cinnamon or clove. Not everyone had a taste for those things either. What could Shiro possibly smell like to someone else?  
  
How could he be anything other than desirable?  
  
“I know I don’t have much here,” Shiro says, his gaze flicking from the fridge to Keith, “but you can order out from wherever you’d like. There’s a great Thai place a few blocks down that delivers as late as two in the morning. We can also order groceries if you’d prefer to have something to cook. I. . .didn't know what you might like so. . .” He shrugs then, looking a bit helpless.  
  
All it does is make Keith want to fill in all the gaps Shiro has exposed, those bits and pieces of their lives they had yet to know. Things Keith wants Shiro to know.  
  
“If we can get some things to stock the place. . .I don’t mind cooking,” Keith replies. “I can make a list for you.”  
  
Shiro perks up then, and for a moment, Keith wonders when he had deflated. The hunch of his shoulders corrects itself, back straightening, and he leans forward toward Keith, his arms uncrossing in one fluid motion. Seconds later, Shiro has his phone in hand.  
  
“Here,” he says, passing the device to Keith like it’s one of the paper menus pulled from his fridge door and not the lifeline it tends to be for most.  
  
Dropping his gaze, Keith recognizes the app interface staring back at him. Teleduv Takeout. _From here to there, in the blink of an eye. Say goodbye to hunger!_ Shiro reaches over and presses on an icon stationed at the upper left corner, causing a menu to drop down.  
  
“You can select the grocery store you want, pop in the address here, then choose whatever you want. When you have everything ordered up, you’ll select your pick-up time —”  
  
“You’re trusting me with your phone?”  
  
Shiro’s finger stills over the icon shaped like a chicken, the word _meat_ in electric blue lettering just below it. He blinks, licks his lips, then offers a lopsided smile. “If it’s any consolation, this is my private one. For personal matters. I have another for work that’s been turned off. With all of this going on. . .I definitely won’t be in the right state of mind to make the sorts of decisions I usually make.”  
  
Keith swallows, taking in the weight of Shiro’s last sentence. Letting out a breath, he shifts his weight and tries to pick apart all the various things that could mean. It’s not like he’s done a rut with someone before. Hell, even with his own heats, he prefers to suppress them as much as he can or writhe in the agony of them alone. He glances up, catching Shiro’s gaze upon him. There’s a strange dark quality to the grey of Shiro’s eyes now, like clouds a lightning strike away from drenching the world below, and it causes something to knot up in his stomach.  
  
He’s not afraid of it, but. . .  
  
“What do you mean _right state of mind_?” Keith breathes out. His gaze hasn’t left Shiro’s, which has morphed into this wonderfully oppressive thing, impossible to look away from. Full of the sort of devastation Keith craves. The same craving that sends him racing along empty desert roads and ocean-hemmed highways at speeds that would make the devil jump with anticipation.  
  
Taking another step closer, Shiro seems to weigh his words. All the while studying Keith’s gaze intently, as though he’s waiting for that first flash of lightning to cut across the night sky. “Have you ever experienced someone’s rut, Keith?”  
  
“No.”  
  
A puff of laughter, and it makes Keith ache in ways he hadn’t thought possible. From the tips of his toes to the darkest vaults of his mind. Every inch of him awakening to that sound, wanting to drown in it just to find himself on the other side.

“The first day, which will be tomorrow, won’t be too bad. For either of us.” More laughter, with a self-deprecating edge that makes Keith wish he could file it down to something less painful to hear. Soft and palatable, not razor wire against the soul. Shiro doesn’t seem to notice. He runs his fingers through his hair and offers Keith something of an apologetic smile. That one Keith finds himself wanting to lick right off the man’s mouth. “I’ll. . .be interested in you.”  
  
“Aren’t you interested in me now?”  
  
“Well. . .yes,” Shiro says, a spill of red creeping over his cheeks. “But the interest I have for you now is _everything_. Over the next few days, it’s going to be weighted more heavily toward one part of that.”  
  
Keith hums out, setting Shiro with a stare that’s more challenge than he thinks he’s truly up for. “And what part of me is that?”  
  
“I’ll want to breed you, Keith.”  
  
Shiro says it so bluntly that Keith nearly loses his grip on the edge of the marble countertop. The flush still flares bright over Shiro’s cheeks, but it does little to soften the effect of those words. _Breed you_. Something made of instinct and desire riots at the idea. Not against it but completely in favor of it, and for a brief moment, Keith thinks he might want to curse being an omega. Only, Shiro smells so damn sweet and perfect. Any thought of damning what he is, in the presence of this man, finds itself as forgotten as the dust on his motorcycle’s tires or Lance’s middle name.  
  
“If your heat tells you you want to be bred, then my rut tells me to make that sort of thing happen,” Shiro explains. He has his left hand wrapped around the back of his neck, as though he might stem the tide of his embarrassment and still leave himself enough dignity to act upon. “The first day or two, I’ll still have some concept of time, of _taking_ my time. By the third day, I’ll want you as often as I can have you. I probably won’t want to leave your side. Sleeping, eating, showering. . .I’ll want all of those things with you. And I’ll. . .”  
  
He pauses then, hand still pressed to his neck, his eyebrows lifted slightly. All of it making him look like he's seventeen again and uncertain about the path laid out before him. Too innocent for the conversation they’re having, and for a brief moment, Keith wonders if Shiro has ever been in love enough with someone to take them through his rut.  
  
“As many times as it takes, right?” Keith says. He can’t stop the faint quirking of his lips as he speaks.  
  
Shiro barks out a laugh. His hand slips from around his neck to cover his mouth. Keith resists the urge to reach out and pulls it free so he can better see Shiro’s expression. The faint crinkle around the corners of his eyes tells him enough, however. That Shiro is honestly amused, and that he can be beautiful like that too. Not just fresh-pressed and carefully groomed, the way he always carried himself into Altea, but unraveling as he confronts something strange and new.  
  
“You’re my omega, Keith,” Shiro says, quieter now, though his eyes still shine brightly. “Tell me when you’ve had enough, and even in my rut, my instinct will be to listen to you. Though. . .I may get insistent about other things. If it’s ever too much, you can lock me in the bedroom.”

His heart drops at the thought. More than that, at the faint twitch at the corner of Shiro’s mouth that told him the smile he now wore isn’t one of his more genuine ones. Is that the part of him responding to an alpha’s shift in emotions, wanting only to please his mate, or is that simply Keith looking at Shiro, as two people, hopelessly falling in love and only just now touching the edges of that potential between them?  
  
He reaches out, cupping Shiro’s cheek. The act catches Shiro by surprise. He doesn’t pull back, but the muscles in his neck tighten up briefly before he completely relaxes into that touch. Perhaps unbeknownst to him, he starts to lean into Keith’s palm, a slight response but its impact like an earthquake rocking Keith’s core. Licking his lips, Keith swallows and glances down to where Shiro’s T-shirt reveals the small dip between his collarbones.  
  
“I won’t lock you up, Shiro. We’ll figure something out. . .”  
  
Shiro nods faintly, the movement gentle against his palm.  
  
“What about the rest of the week?” Keith asks, his fingertips fluttering lightly against Shiro’s skin like a butterfly two seconds from taking flight. Is this weird of him? Touching Shiro like that. . .  
  
Without moving, Shiro shifts his gaze so he can catch Keith’s again. His cheek is still pressed against Keith’s palm, a small gap threatening it now thanks to the subtle movements of Keith’s fingers, and there’s uncertainty in his eyes, churning the grey into the muddied mess of the Atlantic, just as deep and unfathomable.  
  
“The fourth and fifth days will be similar to the third. I’ll want you —” A pause, and with it a flicker of light in Shiro’s gaze that has Keith holding his breath and an ache sinking its fangs into his heart. “— Over and over again. All I will think about is my desire for you.”  
  
_Was it like that with Curtis?_ Keith barely suppresses the words on his tongue, his lips parting and a different sort of ache taking a bite out of his heart.  
  
Instinctively, Shiro shifts against him, stepping closer. He wraps his hand around the one Keith still has pressed against his cheek and pulls it down until his lips settle against the heel of Keith’s palm.  
  
“It might be worse because it’s you.”  
  
His mouth has gone dry. Keith licks at his lips, almost shocked to find them soft and pliant beneath his tongue and not wind-scarred and cracking.  
  
“Why is that?” His voice crackles as he speaks, and the change in its character does something to Shiro that Keith can’t rightly place.  
  
Maybe it’s because he’s never associated fire with Shiro. Only the open sky or the comfort of the coffeehouse. He’s never thought of Shiro and his desires, or how those desires might line up with his own.

Shiro takes a moment, holding it still between them as his eyes continue to search Keith’s. Then, as though he had found the door he needed to pull open, he smiles. “You know, I would dream about you. Being here. . .”  
  
“Just here?” Keith asks.  
  
“Here,” Shiro confirms, lips brushing against Keith’s palm with every word. “Having breakfast with me, stepping out of my shower, under my sheets. . .Here in every way I could possibly imagine.”  
  
With every scenario, Keith can see it now, having seen those very spaces for himself. He closes his head, dips his head, and swallows heavily. “How long?”  
  
Shiro steps closer. His knee bumps against Keith’s thigh, and like a sandstorm rising out of nowhere, a sudden and very real need to touch Shiro blinds his thoughts. Instead, Keith’s grip over the cellphone tightens.  
  
“Do you remember that one afternoon when I hung around for a bit?” Shiro starts. Keith flashes him an exasperated look because there had been far too many afternoons fitting that description. With a chuckle, Shiro nips at Keith’s palm, his eyes growing dark again. “That one where you told me about camping out under the night sky. How it was always so hard to try and find the time to get away, and yet somehow, all too easy for you to find your way back to Altea?”  
  
Keith remembers it. A late summer day where Shiro had stopped in for his usual afternoon drink. It had been strangely slow, as if the heat had melted time itself, and the seconds were just dripping by slowly instead of marching away at their usual robust pace. A few couples had been lingering in the corners of the shop, condensation pooling around the base of their cups, but aside from them, no one had walked into the shop for almost an hour. Shiro had stood lingering by the end of the counter. Keith hadn’t been able to pull his gaze away from the way Shiro’s fingers traveled up and down the length of his own cup, collecting the small beads of water with his fingertips.  
  
When their gazes had met, it was as though someone had taken the sun’s memories, all molten promises, and drizzled them down his spine. It had been like looking into his future, his past, and seeing how it all played into that one present moment standing across the counter from Shiro. Who honestly looked too damn unaffected for someone wearing a pair of fitted black jeans while a heatwave ravaged the city. To his credit, he’d at least worn a T-shirt, which stretched across his shoulders with all the tightly restrained accuracy of a luxury vehicle navigating Mount Tamalpais.  
  
His only apparent acknowledgment of the heat, and fuel for Keith’s daydreams for the next month.  
  
“You spent a lot of time looking at a lot of other things, but when you told me that, about coming back to Altea, it was the first time you looked at me directly since I’d ordered my drink that day.” Shiro’s hand slips past Keith’s hip and curls around the edge of the countertop. He’s not quite boxing Keith in, but the effect, with him standing so close, those lips still warm against his palm, is the same nonetheless. “It made me think that maybe I had some things worth coming back for as well.”  
  
Keith swallows, not sure he’s willing to pull apart that thought just yet, for all the implications buried within it, and instead, turns his attention back to the phone in his hand.  
  
“I should order some things,” he says, a weird tremor to his voice that has Shiro’s scent morphing into something soft and delicious and so horribly, wonderfully calming. He lifts the hand holding the phone, all too aware of how lame the gesture must seem, and purses his lips when he realizes the phone screen had gone black. “It umm. . .it shut off.”  
  
Shiro lets out a laugh, not a trace of judgment in its warmth, and slides into the space beside Keith. He reaches over, his forearm ghosting along Keith’s abdomen and inadvertently startling all the butterflies roosting within it, and taps the screen. It lights up to show an image of the night sky, stars twinkling intermittently. When the facial system fails to recognize Keith’s features, the keypad pops up instead.  
  
“Five, four, four, seven, eight,” says Shiro.

Keith punches it in dutifully. As the apps loaded onto it all fall into place, he feels a strange sense of surprise lighting up his heart. Before it can float off, he clears his throat. “You trust me with your phone. . .”  
  
A question, spoken in that off-hand manner that says Keith doesn’t need an answer if Shiro doesn’t want to give it.  
  
“It’s the least of the things I’m trusting you with this week.” Shiro doesn’t wait for Keith to reply, but instead, pokes the Teleduv Takeout icon again and quickly selects the dropdown menu.  
  
The store that pops up is one Keith is acutely aware of because he’s only been able to shop there on rare occasions. Unilu’s. A small market that operates more as a collection of places to shop than your standard aisle-lined chain grocery store. With a rather nondescript facade of red brick, it could be easy to pass by, but once you step inside, you find yourself morphed onto the streets of some vaguely defined European city. There’s even a small “park” at the center of it all, with a pond filled with colorful koi fish and carefully manicured trees that fence it in.

Shop stalls line the perimeter. Everything from a butcher to a fishmonger, two bakeries (one entirely for bread and another for desserts), fruit and vegetables stands, a creamery that was city-known for its homemade ice cream. You could purchase fresh pasta made that day or find high-end imported boxes of it from the little shop inside that operated more like the grocery stores Keith typically shopped at.  
  
He glances up at Shiro. “This is. . .”  
  
“Two-hour delivery window,” Shiro replies, not entirely answering the question that had been burning on Keith’s lips but silencing it just as effectively. Leaning into Keith, Shiro navigates the various options, giving Keith a quick rundown of everything as he highlights each of the tabs. “Order whatever you think you’ll need for the week. If you forget something, you can always order it later. So, don’t feel like you can’t. Cravings can get a little weird during these things.”  
  
Shiro laughs again, but the red staining his cheeks makes Keith think there’s no real joke to be found in his words.  
  
His eyebrows drawing together, Keith looks back down at the phone and the perfect cuts of high-grade beef waiting for selection. With a hum, he nods his head, then checks either side of him before jumping up and seating himself on the counter. Shiro steps aside, seamless in his motions, then crowds back in again with a low, appreciative whistle.  
  
There’s no stopping the small smirk that claims Keith’s lips. “Is that all it takes to impress you?”  
  
“I’m sure you have some other tricks up your sleeve.”  
  
“Like blowing your budget on all this overpriced food.”  
  
“Quality is worth it.”  
  
“When you can afford it. Who do you think you are, Shirogane, some sort of CEO or something?”  
  
Shiro snorts at that, looking gorgeous in his amusement as he leans into Keith’s space once more. Honestly, that smile of his should be a cardinal sin.  
  
“Something like that,” Shiro murmurs. His scent changes again, another subtle shift that has Keith’s heart racing and his tongue flicking over his lips. “And it’s not like all quality things can be bought.”  
  
“Oh?” Keith arches an eyebrow, but he does nothing to get out of Shiro’s way. He lets the man sink further and further into his personal bubble, the phone briefly forgotten as Shiro’s eyelids fall to half-mast and his scent grows richer and sweeter than before. It’s enough to make Keith want to lick him, anywhere, just to try and get a better taste of it.  
  
“Umm-hmm,” Shiro hums out. Steadying himself with the hand wrapped around the counter’s edge, he brings his other hand up and cups Keith’s left cheek. “I got you, after all.”  
  
“And not even a coffee for it,” Keith murmurs as Shiro’s lips press against his. The contact is light but not tentative. Keith breathes into it, then continues speaking. “I should be worth at least that, Mr. Shirogane.”  
  
“I thought you were going to ‘blow my budget’ on groceries,” Shiro replies, and there’s a darkness to his voice that reminds Keith of black silk sheets and a hunger no amount of money could ever sate.  
  
His lips part. Shiro kisses him in earnest, tongue slipping into Keith’s mouth. All of it boasting a confidence that Keith finds terribly desirable. But Shiro had always carried himself like that around Altea, like he knew what he wanted and how to get it. Keith would be a liar to say he hadn’t found that part of him attractive, the easy way Shiro comported himself, never imposing himself over the space he was in and yet somehow always commanding it.  
  
Keith pushes his tongue back against Shiro’s, which earns him a gratifying huff of surprise and a smile pulling at Shiro’s lips. The hand pressed against his cheek slips lower, until Shiro’s fingers curve around his chin and tip his head ever so slightly. A better angle. It’s not that he’s inexperienced. He’s had his fair share of weekend lovers, to take the edge off of what had only ever been a biological need for him. Never for his heats. But with Shiro, he almost thinks he may as well be an awkward teenager again, fumbling through the motions driven entirely by his emotions.  
  
It’s thrilling.  
  
To feel like he could still have parts of himself willing to open up and be explored.  
  
Shiro’s hand abandons the countertop for Keith’s thigh. Fingers slip along the outer seam of his jeans and stop only when they find purchase on his hip. Part of Keith doesn’t want them to stop there. Wants them, instead, to slide beneath the fabric of his T-shirt and locate the button of his jeans, pop it open and give some relief to his half-hard cock. But, Shiro doesn’t move them. He nips at Keith’s lips, kisses them again briefly, then draws back to look at Keith full in the eyes.  
  
Barely biting back a petulant moan (he’s never made such a sound in his life), Keith exhales and stares back down at the phone. His body feels like he’s been napping under the summer sun, warmed through and now looking for relief. The sort only found in the shadows. He licks his lips, then presses his thumb against the picture of a thick cut of steak with a bold red $48 below it. The sale price.  
  
“Blowing my budget?” Shiro murmurs, mouthing at Keith’s throat.  
  
Keith hums his affirmation with a twitch of his lips, tipping his head to grant Shiro better access to his neck, and continues to work his way through the app. The vegetables and fruits he selects at a better price point, though still too expensive in his opinion. He continues to fill the online basket with other sundry items: chicken thighs, ground beef, popcorn, deli cuts, bread, bacon, eggs, rice, ziti, macaroni, tomato sauce and paste, olive oil, several varieties of sports drinks, milk, cream, sugar, green tea, a handful of various spices, and a few fresh herbs. His hand hovers over the cheese selections, indecision working a frown over his lips, before he settles for a variety of those as well. All things that could work together. He’d read about it, how Shiro’s favorite comfort dish is mac-and-cheese.  
  
When he goes to check out, the total enough to make him gasp sharply and Shiro laugh against his throat with a murmured _not my entire budget_ , a small pop-up asks for verification of the card’s security code and billing zip code. Keith tips the phone so Shiro can get a better view of the screen, momentarily regretting it when Shiro’s lips leave his skin. The last kiss pressed against his throat cools quickly in the air-conditioned kitchen.  
  
After a moment of silence, Shiro clears his throat and says, “My wallet is in that bowl over there.”  
  
Had he been considering his approach to this, to how much he wanted to truly trust Keith?  
  
Taking a breath, Keith surveys the phone screen again, but just as he’s about to lift his head and look at Shiro, lips are once more brushing against his jawline. Shiro’s hand finally slips beneath his T-shirt, and Keith lets out a quiet, relieved moan. Fuck, he’d been waiting for that moment, the one where Shiro’s fingers finally find his skin and tell him of all the ways he can be wanted, of what it means to wait a lifetime just to find your way home. Those fingers skate along his lower abdomen, circle around his navel, then trace their way to the opposite hip. Throughout it all, Shiro’s touch is gentle, tentative in the way new explorations can be though far from shy.  
  
“It’ll close out after a few minutes,” Shiro murmurs. He follows that with another laugh that has Keith’s toes curling in his socks.  
  
“I’ve got it,” Keith mutters as he leans out of range of Shiro’s mouth, setting the phone aside, and hooks his fingers around the edge of the crystal fruit bowl that now serves as the resting place for Shiro’s wallet and keys. Keith recognizes the wallet, having seen it in Shiro’s hands every day for over a year now. The edges are a little worn, but the black leather remains in relatively pristine condition, still carrying a faint gloss to it. When it comes to opening it, however, Keith hesitates.  
  
“I promise it won’t bite you.”  
  
Shiro sounds amused, and when Keith looks at him, his cheeks are a fresh pink and his eyes linger on Keith’s lips like he can still taste their last kiss upon his own. Their eyes meet. Shiro’s lips quirk upward in an awkward, boyish smile that’s somehow more charming than his usual one, which manages to make even the most hard-hearted of the banking district melt before him.  
  
“But you might,” Keith teases, drawing himself back just as Shiro threatens to pull through on those words. Laughter finds them both after that, and Keith lets himself sink into the comfortable way Shiro just. . .lets him exist. Not persistent, not expectant, but allowing him to find the time he needs to take that next step.  
  
Who would have thought opening up a wallet could be such a daunting task. Lance wouldn’t have shirked from it in the slightest, because “why shouldn’t some big shot CEO foot the bill for us?” always seemed to be a reasonable excuse for him.  
  
More than that though, it feels like an intrusion into another part of Shiro. Even if Shiro has given him the explicit permission to walk into that part of his life as well. It carries all the same weight as asking Keith to spend the night, or leave his toothbrush behind, or. . .help Shiro through his rut. He runs his index finger along the top edge of the wallet, and as Shiro settles in beside him, resting his head on Keith’s right shoulder, Keith finally opens it.  
  
There are several credit cards, one for each of the major companies it looks like, driver’s license, several bills tucked into the back pocket, and a gym membership card that Keith only recognizes because Allura frequents the same one. Probably because it’s renowned for catering to its higher-end clients, offering private classes and gym space along with changing rooms for the elites alone. Supposedly some locations even have a separate parking garage, which mitigates the chances of paparazzi sneaking away with post-workout photographs. There are two more cards tucked behind that one, but Keith doesn’t bother trying to discern what they might be.  
  
He pulls out Shiro’s driver’s license first. The photo is unfairly handsome, particularly when compared to Keith’s, which showcases him scowling at the camera like it had asked him for a nude picture instead. He punches in the zip code, then goes to replace the card. Before he slides it back behind the clear plastic covering, he notices another card that had been tucked behind Shiro’s license. Also government-issued. Keith has a similar card, though his has a lavender border around it instead of black, and right beneath his name, a capital ‘O’ in red.  
  
“You can look over that one if you want,” Shiro says. No trace of judgment or trepidation. As if Keith had simply wanted to peruse a takeout menu instead of digging further into Shiro’s identity.  
  
Does he want to look at it?  
  
It’s not like he doesn’t know what information it will contain. A few extra tidbits the driver’s license doesn’t, all of it registered with the government and trickled on down to whatever city you chose to reside in. With it, you could get into certain places while being barred from others, all depending on what that card contained. Keith had never really cared to venture much into such places, though he knew all of the safe-havens available in the city.  
  
He presses his thumb against the edge of the card and slides it out of the pocket so it could no longer stare at him like some disgruntled rattlesnake woken from its early afternoon sunning session. It’s not that his curiosity had gotten the better of him, but that Shiro seemed to be holding his breath until Keith finally pulled it out. Takashi Shirogane. Male. Beneath his name, a capital ‘A’ in the same red that designated Keith as an omega. While it didn’t list his address, it did have the ward he lived in and the agency he was to report to for any matters relating to his status as an alpha. At the bottom right corner, a small green circle with last Monday’s date printed beneath it in thin black numbers.  
  
“I got tested right before all of this,” Shiro explains, his hand settling easily over Keith’s thigh now. “Lotor’s company requires it before you use their services, but. . .I’m clean. In case you were concerned. And I haven’t been with anyone since.”  
  
Keith breathes in, feeling the heat crawling up the back of his neck. “I wasn’t worried about you. . .” A swallow, his heart like a mad jackrabbit bouncing off his ribs. “. . .I’m clean, too. I can get my card if you want.”  
  
“That’s —”  
  
“I was tested two days ago. Got my implant checked too, so there shouldn’t be any issues. I’ll go get —”  
  
“Keith.”  
  
He stops, unable to slide from the counter by the way Shiro now boxes him in completely. He blinks, staring at Shiro’s chest instead of his face, and notices for the first time, the lion head printed in purple over Shiro’s heart. His company’s logo. Keith swallows, wondering if Shiro’s heartbeat could slow down his own if he pressed his hand to Shiro’s chest and matched himself to the same wavelength.  
  
Fingers wrap around his chin and carefully, considerately draw Keith’s head up so that he can’t help but look into Shiro’s eyes. They’re beautiful and clear and not at all like smoke or steel or all the other manner of things such a grey color would invoke. Keith can see everything in those eyes, the earnest honesty of Shiro. His desire for Keith included. He reaches out then, presses his hand to Shiro’s shirt, and curls his fingers around the logo over his heart.  
  
“I trust you.”  
  
Keith’s heart stops at those three words. Something else scratches at his throat, looking for a way out, but he clamps his mouth shut and takes in a shuddering breath instead.  
  
Shiro leans in, slotting himself between Keith’s legs, and presses their mouths together. This time, the kiss is slow, learning all the small things about Keith’s lips, the shape of his mouth and what he tastes like when he finally opens up to Shiro. It’s strangely invigorating, considering Keith has never really cared to be learned by anyone else. Not that he hasn’t thought about it, what it would be like to have someone that saw him from all the various angles of his being and could still want him no matter how many times they skimmed over a too sharp edge and found themselves bleeding with a little more knowledge of him.  
  
He lets out a soft whine into Shiro’s mouth, which earns him a shift in Shiro’s scent, still warm and comforting but spiked with desire, like a shot of whiskey after a cup of coffee. Shiro presses in closer still, his hand dropping to Keith’s hip again and encouraging him toward the edge of the counter once more.  
  
A sharp, insistent beeping from Shiro’s phone startles him, which results in a jolt through his body, fingers spasming over Shiro’s chest, and his teeth grazing over Shiro’s lower lip. Shiro lets out a quiet hiss, followed by a laugh that rings dark and deep throughout the kitchen.

The security code for the card. One glance down and Keith has the answer to their interrupted kiss.  
  
“Guess time’s up. . .” Shiro says, laughter still staining his voice. He pokes his tongue against his lip, where Keith can see it starting to swell, a spot of bright red over the inner edge.  
  
“Shiro, I didn’t —”  
  
“It’s fine, Keith.” Shiro breathes out and offers him a smile far too fond for the occasion. Looks like those are the ones known to break someone’s heart. “Two-zero-one.”  
  
Keith blinks, still caught up in trying to sort out the feelings all knotted up in his chest. “What?”  
  
“The security code for the card.”  
  
“The card. . .Oh!” Twisting sharply to his left, Keith swipes the phone from the counter, where it had been entirely forgotten in the heat of Shiro’s lips and hands.  
  
Punching in the numbers quickly, Keith breathes out as the countdown timer flashing over the top of the grocery list fizzles out, and a new screen pops up with a cheery _Order Complete!_ in bright blue. Below it, in smaller black letters, a statement informing him that his order time qualified for the same-day two-hour deliver window, and to make sure someone would be at home to receive it, as there are items that would require immediate refrigeration upon arrival.  
  
When he finally looks up again, he finds that Shiro has barely moved, a hand still on Keith’s thigh, his body fitting perfectly between Keith’s legs. But there’s this look on his face that Keith can’t completely read. His eyebrows lifted slightly, mouth quirked upward at the right corner, and a depth to his gaze that makes Keith feel like Shiro is reading through his future years like someone casually flipping through a novel in a bookstore, deciding whether or not the adventure promised within its pages is worth the purchase.  
  
“What?”  
  
He can’t resist asking, and almost instantly regrets the hasty question for the way his voice catches on his uncertainty.  
  
With a shake of his head, Shiro breathes out a soft laugh. He reaches up, cupping Keith’s cheek again, and leans in, pressing his forehead to Keith’s. When he speaks, Shiro shuts his eyes, but it does nothing to hide him from Keith at all.  
  
“I didn’t think it would be this bad.”  
  
It doesn’t sound bad at all, not with his voice low and sweet, and his scent a perfect match for his tone. He almost smells like. . .  
  
“What’s bad?”  
  
Another shake of his head that rolls Shiro’s forehead lightly across Keith’s, back and forth. Keith can feel the smile as it forms over Shiro’s lips.  
  
“Having you here. . .ordering groceries. . .mixing your scent with mine. . .” Shiro says.  
  
“And that’s bad?”  
  
“A little.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because I think I want more of it.”  
  
“Don’t most alphas in rut want these sorts of things?”  
  
Shiro’s smile grows a little wider. He opens his eyes and stares directly into Keith’s, searching them. His hand shifts, slipping toward Keith’s knee. “Alphas in rut want a lot of things.”  
  
“Oh.” Keith swallows and resists the urge to lick his lips. “You smell good, Shiro.”  
  
He hadn’t meant to say that, but like most truths eventually do, it had found its way out into the open for all to examine it. Blaming the situation would be the easy thing to do. With the way Shiro smells, making him the only thing Keith is aware of at that moment, to the hand on his thigh, insistent even as it does nothing but sit there warm and heavy, to the dark desire that consumes Shiro’s eyes, making the grey shine like a silver moon hung in the blackest hours of night. A fixed point demanding all attention.  
  
Keith had always thought Shiro the sort of man heroes are made out of. Right now though, he wonders if he’s not the one who sits in their shadows, king of the other side of the coin, neither good nor evil but some beautifully flawed mix of both, damned always to play the hero’s antithesis.  
  
Even if he is, Keith would choose him every time.  
  
This time, when Shiro responds, his lips brush against Keith’s, and every word feels like a kiss more intimate than the ones they’ve already shared. “You smell like everything I want, Keith.”


End file.
